Impulse
by Saramund
Summary: Jack follows an impulse that leads him to some home truths.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Impulse Author: Saramund E-mail: Saramund@hotmail.com Season: None - set in the future Spoilers: No real spoilers, but does deal with Jack's History prior to the Stargate Program Rating: PG - for some swearing and darkish themes Disclaimer: Stargate SG1 and its characters are property of Stargate (II) productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This fanfic was written for entertainment purposes only and absolutely no money exchanged hands as a result of this story. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and story are property of the author. This story may not be posted anywhere else without the consent of the author. Authors Note I: This was quite literally a story I had no idea I was going to write. The first line came to me, and then all of a sudden, half an hour later, the thing was written. It does deal with religion - and in this little story, I've made Jack O'Neill Catholic. So if you find a belief in God or religion offensive, this probably isn't the story for you.. Otherwise, read on. Authors Note II: - Thanks to Chezza for beta-ing this so quickly!!  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~  
  
The bench was hard, rigid against my back and thighs. It did nothing for easing the spasm that had been plaguing me for the last two months. But then again, little had actually eased the spasm in my back. Not even Janet's strongest drugs had helped this time around. I sat, knees and back aching in the cold air, listening to the man in front as he went about his routine. It had been an impulse borne early in the morning air. An impulse to visit a place I'd not been to in at least ten years.  
  
I was at Mass. Yes, you heard me, I - Jack O'Neill, Mr Cynical himself - was in a Church. Kneeling with the congregation, praying with them, taking holy communion with them. And I have to admit to feeling a brief spurt of guilty shame for eating the host, without having confessed my sins before hand. I may be a cynical Colonel today, but I'd been brought up by a devout Catholic family.  
  
I whispered the final blessing with the others in my pew, bowing my head and sitting back down, hands clasped between my knees as the others slowly filed out. It wasn't a large congregation, but then they weren't these days. The glory days of the Church were long gone, back in the sixties when I was just a teenager. But I still felt that the sentiment lived on, beyond these four walls. Love thy neighbour et cetera, et cetera..  
  
The Mass hadn't given me what I was looking for, but the silence afterward did. There's something about a church. An old church. Something that rings a chord deep within your soul. And it wasn't just churches. I'd found, during my travels, that quite a few places had this.. Presence. This feeling. It was undefinable, but it was there. Even the most cynical person (and yes, I counted myself among that group) could feel it. I'd once visited a circle of stones in Britain and I had felt the same Presence *there*, as I did right now.  
  
I finally opened my eyes and blinked rapidly, clearing the blue of sudden light away from my vision. The Priest, Father David McDilian, was quietly cleaning up after the mass, folding away the cloth and putting the host and wine back in the Tabernacle. It's red light shone above the dark oak cabinet, a sign that The Holy Spirit was present. Was it His Presence I felt? I don't know. All I do know is that for the first time in several weeks, I felt at peace.  
  
Finally, almost half an hour after the service had ended, Father McDilian headed over towards me, his priestly robes discarded and in their place, the simple black slacks and shirt with dog-collar that made up his uniform. He sat next to me, not crowding me, just a silent presence. This was a very patient man. Finally, he cleared his throat gently.  
"Do you want to talk about it, Jack?" His voice was soft in the empty church, yet still it echoed slightly.  
"Father?" I played dumb. He scowled at me, bushy eyebrows beetling. I flushed slightly, like a schoolboy caught looking up a girls skirt. Not that I'd ever done that. Well, I had never been caught doing that anyway.  
"I. I'm married again, Father." I confessed to him. He looked a little startled himself, eyes widening slightly and those beetle brows rising high on his forehead. "Last year. You knew Sara and I got divorced, right?"  
"Yes. Sara told me several years ago." McDilian replied gently.  
"My.. wife. She." I swallowed past the cold lump in my throat. "She wants children." I stopped, unable to go on. McDilian kept silent for a while, letting me think, then finally spoke.  
"Surely that was something you spoke of before you married, Jack? Children are an amazing gift to any couple in love." Even as he spoke, he sat still. This man was the most calm, serene man I had ever met. Even when he'd first been ordained, when I was in my early twenties, he'd been still. I thought back to the man that I'd gone to high-school with, and the image of that much younger man superimposed itself on to my vision of the priest in front of me.  
"Jack?" David prompted me.  
"Sorry, Father." I replied. It was a habit. Though I'd known the man for a great majority of my life, he was still 'Father McDilian' to me. Always would be. It was just one of those 'Catholic' things. "Wool gathering. We never really discussed children. To be honest, we both thought that she couldn't have any. She had an accident a few years ago and as a by-product we believed that it made her barren."  
"And now?" David prompted again.  
"She's not. We found out a few weeks ago, after some routine tests. My wife was ecstatic."  
"I take it you're not?" David leant forward, mirroring my pose, hands clasped between his knees, looking down towards his shoes.  
"It's not that I'm.. I don't know." I shrugged, defeated.  
"Does this have anything to do with Charlie?" He asked gently, softly. Even so, it hurt to hear him speak of my long dead son. "Jack?"  
"No." I forced the word out from between dry lips. David cleared his throat and said nothing more. I endured about five minutes of this deafening silence before I broke.  
"I can't be a father again, Father." I admitted, heart wrenching in my chest.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Loosing. When Charlie died, it almost killed me. I. his death is on my hands, and I can't do it again. I can't be responsible for another child. It's too much of a risk. *I'm too much of a risk*." The deep, cold place down in the bottom of my chest was oozing out an enveloping cold that was slowly sucking out any emotion I had left. And I hated that it was happening. But I'd rather live with the cold of that dark place, than risk another child's death being placed at my feet.  
"Jack." David chided me. I shook my head. "Jack, listen to me. Charlie's death was not your fault."  
"My gun. My house. My son. My fault." Those eight words, that mantra that had echoed around my head more times than I could count, voiced themselves in a harsh grating voice.  
"Your gun. Your house. Your son. His foolishness." David countered. I turned on him, a snarl of rage. How dare he call my son foolish! He'd put his hands up in defence before I'd even turned on him. "Jack, listen to me! Just for a minute. I couldn't tell you this before, when I last saw you." The funeral. Something I barely remembered through the clouds of grief and whiskey. "It was your gun. And yes, you kept it in your house, but did you ever - in your entire life - keep it loaded? Did you ever leave it in a place that was easily accessible?"  
"No." I frowned. Of course I hadn't. It was drilled into us from basic, all weapons had to be stored securely for the protection of everyone.  
"So, you stored the ammunition separately?" At my reluctant nod, David continued. "So, wouldn't it be safe to assume that Charlie - in his quest to be just like his father - went and found that gun, went and found the amunitionammunition, and loaded it as he'd seen you do many times before, when you cleaned and checked your weapon? Loaded it, as he'd seen it done on the television?"  
"See! There. Right there. He'd seen me load my weapon. I showed him how to, just by cleaning my own gun. And my neglect in letting him watch the kind of television that showed guns is just as bad! It's my fault."  
"For Christ's sake, Jack!" I heard David swore, and it halted me in my stride. I don't think I'd ever heard David swear, even in high school. "The boy worshipped you. He'd seen you do countless things. Mow the lawn, replace the tire on Sara's Mustang, trim the hedges, he'd even seen you clean up the house. It's what a father does. Create a role model for your child to follow. Your own role model just happened to include Military training. But it was his decision, his actions that led to his accident. And that's precisely what it was, Jack. An accident. A foolish, costly accident. Where no one, not Charlie, not Sara and especially not *you* were at fault." I grunted, still not believing him. He took a breath, then looked at me for a long time.  
"So, this new wife of yours." He said, changing the subject. Or so I thought. "Does she know about this fear of yours?"  
"It's not a fear." I defended automatically.  
"Of course it isn't." David placated. Then continued. "So, obviously she doesn't, or you would be talking to her about this, rather than sitting in my Church, making me swear in the presence of my God. So why can't you talk to her about this?"  
"Cause. she would say the same things you just did." I admitted.  
"In fact, I'd guess she already has, hasn't she?" David prompted, and I gave a shameful nod in return. "So, this new wife - Jack, you could at least tell me her name - has told you that Charlie's accident wasn't your fault. Sara has told you it wasn't your fault, on too many occasions to count. And I've told you. Your spiritual father." I snorted at this and got his grin in return. Pomposity was not David's way. "So are you going to listen to us - those who should know you, who do know you - better than you know yourself in some instances, or are you going to listen to that little devil inside you, that's making you cling to all that angst like you're clinging to the last piece of apple pie?"  
"Angst?" I repeated.  
"Hey, I know a few popular words, you know. It's not all reading the Bible and praying in this job, you know." David pushed my shoulder gently. I remained quiet, thinking over what he had said. Then I thought over what Sara had said. And lastly my wife. Who was at home, in bed. Probably waking up by now, worrying about her absent husband.  
  
Children. The thought of looking after another child, of committing that much emotion to one soul, to one being in the whole world, was daunting. But hadn't I done so already, in admitting to my feelings for my wife? By marrying her? Didn't I already have that commitment? That wealth of feeling?  
  
Without my say so, a picture of what she would look like pregnant, belly bulging with our child, displayed itself on my inner television screen, the image perfect in it's imperfections. I could see the swollen ankles, the water retention. The anger snapping out of those wondrous blue eyes of hers. The small stretch marks on her stomach. And my heart burst.  
  
The cold place deep inside retreated under the onslaught of warmth, retreated so far that I left it behind completely. In it's place was a calm, serene centre. A quiet that was pervading through my very being. I looked at David, who was staring at the alter, eyes distant as he prayed, and it was then that I understood. What I was feeling now, what I felt for my wife, was what he felt for his vocation, his meaning in life. His calmness was a by-product of that certainty. I coughed, clearing my throat and gaining his attention. He turned to me, one eyebrow raised slightly.  
"I have to go home now, Father." I said, rising and walking past him to the end of the pew and genuflecting towards the tabernacle.  
"Good. Will I see you next week?" He asked, following me out into the sunshine. Always pushing for me to come back, always pushing for me to become a 'practising' Christian.  
"You never know." I replied, grinning, then stepped down a few stairs, before turning back to him. "By the way Father - her name is Samantha." I said and then headed back home, to my wife.  
  
-fin- 


	2. Part 2

It wasn't the empty space beside me that woke me up, so much as the empty silence in   
  
the house. I was more than used to my husband waking well before I did, and often   
  
heading out into the backyard to putter around in the garden for an hour or so, usually   
  
waiting for me to wake up before starting breakfast. It was this distinct *lack* of his   
  
presence, for wont of a better term, that woke me up.  
  
I squinted at the alarm clock and noted that it was just past 0800, well before I   
  
normally got out of bed on a Sunday. That is, on a Sunday where I wasn't on a   
  
mission, or needed on base, or thinking of some new way to save the planet. And   
  
this, God bless, was just one of those rare Sundays.  
  
The plan had been to sleep in late, indulge in an enormous cooked breakfast of   
  
bacon, eggs and hash browns, while simultaneously reading the newspaper and   
  
basking in the morning sun with my husband. From the vast empty silence that was   
  
our house, it seemed that plans had changed.   
  
I reached my hand out from under the covers and grabbed my beeper,   
  
checking the display in case I'd slept through it's incessant noise. I hadn't. The   
  
display was blank. I lifted up and checked the phone beside the bed. No blinking   
  
lights. No messages. Now I was curious enough to actually get out of bed.  
  
I rolled up and out in one smooth motion, reaching for my dressing gown at   
  
the same time. I pulled it on, shivering slightly until the material warmed up. No   
  
sleek satin negligee for me. No, as always it was flannelette and cotton. So far Jack   
  
hadn't made any complaints. In fact, quite the opposite. Which reminded me.  
  
"Jack?" I called, walking down the hallway into the living area. The room   
  
was dark, curtains still closed. I walked past the sofa into the kitchen. There was an   
  
empty mug on the sink, and the coffee maker was bubbling away happily. From the   
  
amount of liquid in the base, I'd guess it had been bubbling for a few hours now. I   
  
frowned at it accusingly. Like it could answer my silent question on the whereabouts   
  
of my missing husband. I briefly checked through the kitchen window to the garden   
  
outside, but there was no sign.   
  
It was when I finally looked out the front window and found his truck gone   
  
that I realised what had happened. Jack had gone somewhere. Gone out. And he   
  
hadn't told me. I sat down with a thump on the sun-lounge in the front room, staring   
  
out at the blank driveway.  
  
-o0o-  
  
It was barely twenty minutes later when he returned, his truck pulling up quietly in   
  
our front yard, the exhaust churning out a white cloud of condensation in the cold air.   
  
I'd switched on the heater and opened the loungeroom curtains, but other than that,   
  
had not moved from the sun-lounge.   
  
I watched as Jack exited the truck, pulling a sack of shopping with him as he   
  
did so. The truck locked as he walked away and I saw his hand move to his pocket,   
  
putting away the keys. I moved slightly, and he caught the action. He turned his eyes   
  
towards me, hesitated and then continued up the path to the front door. I heard the   
  
door open, close and then his muffled cough as he put his jacket up on one of the   
  
pegs.  
  
"Sam?" He called to me as he stood behind the sofa. I said nothing, just   
  
continued to stare out into the front yard. I heard him clear his throat - a clear sign of   
  
nervousness in my husband - then walk into the kitchen.  
  
Within seconds he was back, and I could feel him like a warm wall standing   
  
behind me. I bit my lip, scared. This man, my husband, held my whole life in the   
  
palm of his hand, and at times he didn't even know it. Only days ago, I'd told him   
  
that I was pregnant with our child. Pregnant. The word itself conjured up   
  
amazement, awe and terror in my heart. After Jolinar, both Janet and I had thought I   
  
would never be able to have children, especially with the special protein marker I'd   
  
inherited as a result of the incident.   
  
But then, just a few weeks ago, I'd begun getting symptoms. Rather than tell   
  
Jack and get both of our hopes up, I'd gone in to see Janet and gotten some quiet   
  
testing done. And the result was that I was pregnant. When I'd told Jack, though - I   
  
bit my lip again. His was not the reaction of a proud, excited father-to-be. And it   
  
hurt. Deep, deep down it ripped and tore at me. And scared me.   
  
"Sam? Honey?" His voice was gentle, and I could feel the light touch   
  
of his hand on my shoulder. I heard the coffee table creak as he sat on it, felt his   
  
fingers trail down my arm to my elbow. "Sam? Can I talk to you a second?" I took a   
  
deep breath and turned, trying to blink away reddened eyes. Damn hormones,   
  
anyway. Jack swore softly when he saw the state I was in, but I frowned silently at   
  
him, and he pulled back.  
  
"I got up early this morning." He started. I stared. Usually, when   
  
we're fighting, I'm as vocal as he is, if not more so. But today, I was feeling lost and   
  
worried. In the days since I'd told him my news, he'd barely said a word, retreating   
  
into the shell that protected him so well. I suppose, given his history, I should have   
  
been more understanding. But I just couldn't. History didn't have to repeat itself.   
  
This child I carried was not Charlie. He or she would not die prematurely. I could   
  
see it, just as I could see that Jack couldn't.   
  
"I noticed." I replied sarcastically. He shot me a look from beneath his   
  
eyelashes, then lowered his gaze again.  
  
"I went to church." He blurted. I stared at him in shock. Jack O'Neill was   
  
one of the most apathetic Catholics I'd ever met. I don't think, in the entire time I'd   
  
known him,he'd ever stepped foot inside a church - and goa'uld temples did not   
  
count.  
  
"You went to church?" I repeated. He nodded. "Why, for heaven's sake?"  
  
"I don't know. I woke up before dawn, and I just had this.. need. So I got up   
  
and went. You know, St Joseph's, on Donald Road?" I nodded, still puzzled. Jack   
  
went silent for a while, eyes glazed with some internal memory.  
  
"Jack?" I prompted. He blinked and looked at me, taking a deep breath.  
  
"I'm scared, Sam." He admitted in a rush.  
  
"Scared? Of what?"  
  
"When I was at St Joseph's, I talked to someone I haven't seen in almost ten   
  
years. His name is Father David McDilian, he's the priest there. He's been there for   
  
almost fifteen years now. He... he buried Charlie. I've known him since high school.   
  
We talked about things. About you and the baby. About Charlie. About Sara."  
  
"Jack. What are you scared of?" Sam prodded, instinct telling her that this   
  
was the question she needed to ask. This was the question he had to answer.  
  
"I'm scared of loving this baby. Of loving it and losing it. Losing Charlie   
  
almost broke me. I know you know that. I'm scared of feeling that way again. I'm   
  
not strong enough to recover from...from something like that again. But David made   
  
me see that it was too late." He blew a breath out, and I felt it tickle my face gently.   
  
"There is no way that I could not love this child. He's a part of you, a part of me.   
  
And he exists already. And I love him already. And that's what scares me most of   
  
all. What I feel for our child is akin to what I felt for Charlie. How do I cope? It   
  
scares me, Sam."  
  
"Jack." I said, my heart almost breaking for him. I reached forward and   
  
grabbed his hands, halting the wringing motions he was making. "I have a question   
  
for you. I want your honest answer."  
  
"What?" I could hear the dread in his voice, but continued anyway. "Would you, to rid   
  
yourself of the pain you suffered ten years ago, if you had the chance, go back and   
  
stop Charlie from coming into existence? Would you rather not have known Charlie   
  
at all?"  
  
"God, no!" Jack almost yelled his answer at me, looking horrified at the   
  
thought. I sat back and waited. "Are you crazy? I loved my son, I would never wish   
  
his life away! Charlie was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I can't   
  
believe you would suggest that, Sam!" Now he was looking indignant. I waited a   
  
little longer, watching the thoughts flash behind his eyes as he slowly caught up.  
  
"Oh." He finally uttered, blinking slowly. He shot a look at me, one half of   
  
his mouth twisted up in wry amusement. I smiled back the same smile, my hands   
  
cupped over my stomach. "I get it."  
  
"Good." I replied, reaching out to him. He laid his hand in mine, and I   
  
brought it to my stomach, to rest beneath mine on my slightly distended stomach.   
  
"This child is ours, Jack. And he or she has a future that is not predestined. Our child   
  
will live to give you joy for more years than you care to imagine. You have to have   
  
faith in that. And if he or she doesn't live as long as we would care, then we will still   
  
have the joy of knowing our child, of loving our child as hard as we can, for as long   
  
as we can. That is all we can do as parents. And it's something you taught me, Jack."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Yes, with Miram. The child that you taught to be a child. You gave her   
  
unconditional love. You give all the children you meet unconditional love. That's   
  
what we need and that's what we will give our child."  
  
"I know." His thumb was slowly stroking my stomach, flexing over the curve.   
  
"Just... give me time?"  
  
"You have six months, Jack." I replied with another wry grin. "Now I'm   
  
hungry. Where's my breakfast?" Jack smiled in reply, leant forward and kissed me   
  
softly, then stood up and walked into the kitchen. Soon after, I smelt the fragrance of   
  
frying bacon and sighed appreciatively.   
  
Jack was one of the bravest men I had ever met and he would overcome this   
  
fear. Even if I had to beat it out of him. I took that cheery thought with me as I   
  
headed for the kitchen and my husband, who was whistling a Monty Python tune off-  
  
key as he worked. He cast a smile at me as he laid more bacon in the pan, then broke   
  
off his whistling for a second.  
  
"Father David wants to meet you." He told me with a wicked grin. I raised an   
  
eyebrow in question, but said nothing as I grabbed the glass of juice of the counter   
  
and took a sip.  
  
"Hey, that's mine." Jack protested. I grinned in reply, quoting an oft-used   
  
piece of drivel that still had value.  
  
"In this marriage what's yours is mine and what's mine is me own."   
  
My oh so very mature husband retorted by poking out his tongue at me. I   
  
snorted into the juice, spraying my nose and the counter with bright orange liquid that   
  
Jack mopped up silently, his shoulders shaking slightly with mirth.  
  
And I knew then that whatever happened, we would be okay. I placed my   
  
hand over my stomach. All of us.  
  
  
  
  
  
-fin- 


End file.
